


Focus

by westwoodandridingcrops



Series: Object(ified) [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwoodandridingcrops/pseuds/westwoodandridingcrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>We take requests on <a href="http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/ask">Tumblr.</a> We'll literally write anything. Give us a go.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Focus

**Author's Note:**

> We take requests on [Tumblr.](http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/ask) We'll literally write anything. Give us a go.

“Yes, yes. The shipment sh-should be in tomorrow, Mr. Baumgartner,“ Jim continued, determined to stay utterly attentive to the matter at hand. He was stammering, and he almost hated it. Almost.  

Sherlock smirked in response to Jim’s stutter. Or rather, he would have smirked if his mouth had not been otherwise occupied at the moment. Still, he looked up at Jim and let his eyes betray the smirk that would have been. The stutter was perhaps one of the first signs that Jim was beginning to lose at this particular game and threatened to alert the client that Jim Moriarty was perhaps less than focused on ‘fixing it’ for Mr. Baumgartner. Good. Sherlock tilted his head slightly and repeated the swirl around the crown that had made Jim’s composure slip slightly and punctuated the motion with a lap at his frenulum.

The back of Jim’s hand pressed to his mouth, his eyelids fluttering. He could do this. He felt a bead of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck before trailing down into his shirt collar. The idiot on the other side of the phone prattled on about the importance of this delivery to his business and Jim felt his temper flare. "Do we have a problem?” He asked lightly. His voice was strained, but he hoped that would come across as annoyance and not the barely contained groan that it was.

Sherlock could feel the flexing motion in the thighs he was knelt between as Jim fought to stay in control. His voice sounded thinner somehow, but he’d managed to disguise it as impatience. Of course, his aim was not to  _really_ ruin this for Jim, but these games between them were meaningless if the stakes were not higher than any sane men would tolerate.  "Do we?“ He pulled off to say, his voice low, both in volume and in pitch, before ducking back down to suck once just at the head and then pulling off to await Jim’s response.

Mr. Baumgartner stumbled over his next words, fear evident in his voice, and Jim smirked to himself. He wasn’t just any old distributor. He wasn’t fucking FedEx, and he’d not be spoken too like an ingrate. After he was well enough pleased with the man’s fumblings, he relaxed somewhat in his chair. Sherlock was looking up at him, his mouth rosy and shiny with spit. "Good, I’m glad you see things my way,” he remarked. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock to see if he’d continue or not. It had been his idea, after all. 

Evidently, Jim was pleased with the response he’d received on the other end of the conversation. He understood Jim well enough to know that the eyebrow translated to a 'Well?’ which translated to an interest in a game that he had originally tried to wave off silently. Amusement twinkled in Sherlock’s eyes as he took him into his mouth again, this time allowing his throat muscles to relax until his mouth was wrapped around the base of his cock. Pulling back slowly, he seemed as though he might settle into a languorous rhythm, but then opted to quicken his pace. The appeal in all this, at least from Sherlock’s perspective, was to watch Jim squirm after all.

Sherlock seemed to be taking his time, which suited Jim fine. It was easier to control himself when things were slow. “Yes, naturally we’ll have snipers there. We’re hardly blushing virgins…”   _Christ._ Jim felt his head nudging the back of Sherlock’s throat and for a moment, he lost all sense of rationality before shaking his head, “… to this sort of thing,” he finished stiltedly. Sherlock’s pace now was quick and rapid, and he could feel his jaw muscle jumping as he gritted down. There was nothing he wanted more than to cant his hips up, fucking himself into Sherlock’s beautiful mouth. He needed to cut this soon or he wasn’t going to be able to contain himself.  

He couldn’t exactly look up at Jim from the position that he was in, but as soon as he could draw back to lap around the crown again, he did let his eyes flicker up at Jim. “Interesting choice of words.” He commented under his breath, before quickly moving down his length again. Faster was good, faster was causing those tell-tale muscles to twitch around him and Jim was shaking his head as if to shake off the sensation. Hardly. He raised himself onto his knees as much as he could and positioned his elbows on Jim’s thighs, bobbing up and down even quicker than before. The best angle for him and, he supposed, the worst one for Jim. 

He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to kill or fuck Sherlock Holmes, which, he supposed was rather how it always was. Sherlock knew him, knew his body, obviously, as he played him just as well as he did his violin. He watched Sherlock’s curved lips curl around his length over and over again as he plunged down. He was only faintly aware of Mr. Baumgartner’s grumblings from the ear piece of his phone, whatever he was saying lost in the sensation of Sherlock’s hot, lush mouth sucking him like it was his job. He could feel his balls tighten and knew it wouldn’t be long. “Yes, yes, Mr. Baumgartner. All taken care of. Right, right. Goodbye.” The phone slipped from his hand as both of them moved to thread through Sherlock’s hair. “I hate you,” he hissed. 

He might have prepared some rejoinder to further needle Jim with, but the hands in his hair kept him to what he was doing. Jim had assured him he could keep himself in utter control. He knew his demanding perfectionist well enough to know he’d consider his performance a loss. Regardless, he’d been running the pad of his thumb over the seam of Jim’s balls as he felt them tighten and decided to finish with a flourish. He continued in the demanding pace he’d set, but stopped when the tip of his nose made contact with his symphysis.  There, rather than relaxing, he tightened his throat muscles and swallowed as deeply as he could, a move calculated to finally push Jim over the edge. 

Jim was teetering now on the edge. And there was nothing more to be done but enjoy the moment. He’d lost his game with Sherlock, but it hardly felt that way. For now, he had Sherlock Holmes on his knees, focused on nothing but him and his pleasure. He knew as soon as it was over he’d be sulky that he’d lost and Sherlock would gloat until Jim just had to fuck him on the table, otherwise he’d never hear the end of it. He was pacing himself to the break neck rhythm Sherlock had set when suddenly it stopped altogether. Sherlock had taken him all the way in, lingering there. He groaned when he felt the smooth muscles of his throat contracting and releasing around him, and he came without much warning at the changed pressure and speed, his orgasm seeming to ripple all the way from his toes. After, he slumped in his chair as Sherlock extracted himself from his position under his desk. “You might be my undoing, Sherlock,” he groused. 

Sherlock hummed amusedly, now sitting back on his heels and wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand. “Certainly, that of your shipping business, at least.”


End file.
